had been used, some were startlingly new. Jenny was more modest in such
acquirements than were most of her associates; but she was affected, as
all such must be, by the prevailing wind. Strangely enough, it was not
her habit to wear very smart hats, for business or at any other time.
She would have told you, in the event of any such remark, that when you
had been fiddling about with hats all day you had other things to do in
the evenings. Yet she had good taste and very nimble fingers when
occasion arose. In bringing her box from the bedroom she brought also
from the stand in the passage her drooping hat, against which she
proceeded to lay various materials, trying them with her sure eye,
seeking to compose a picture, with that instructive sense of cynosure
which marks the crafty expert. Fascinated, with her lips parted in an
expression of that stupidity which is so often the sequel to a fit of
crying, Emmy watched Jenny's proceedings, her eyes travelling from the
hat to the ever-growing heap of discarded ornaments. She was dully
impressed with the swift judgment of her sister in consulting the
secrets of her inner taste. It was a judgment unlike anything in her own
nature of which she was aware, excepting the measurement of ingredients
for a pudding.

So they sat, all engrossed, while the kettle began to sing and the
desired steam to pour from the spout, clouding the scullery. The only
sound that arose was the gurgling of Pa Blanchard's pipe (for he was
what is called in Kennington Park a wet smoker). He sat remembering
something or pondering the insufficiency of news. Nobody ever knew what
he thought about in his silences. It was a mystery over which the girls
did not puzzle, because they were themselves in the habit of sitting for
long periods without speech. Pa's broodings were as customary to them
as the absorbed contemplativeness of a baby. "Give him his pipe," as
Jenny said; "and he'll be quiet for hours--till it goes out. _Then_